


So Say Goodbye

by Miss_Murdered



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Murdered/pseuds/Miss_Murdered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Trowa puts himself in the line of fire on a Preventer mission, he is forced into seeking professional help from a psychologist – who happens to be a certain Dr. Chang. Through four sessions, Trowa explores his feelings towards the other pilots and the one he loved and lost… 3x2. Deathfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Session One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: As always, I don't own GW and I make no claim to it…
> 
> A/N: This fic is four parts – four psychologist's appointments. Inspired by the song Waiting… by City and Colour which is a beautiful and amazing song. I highly recommend listening to it as it shows where the whole fic came from and because Dallas Green's voice is spine tingly good. 
> 
> Beta'd by ELLE.

**~ Session One ~**

**A Coma Might Feel Better Than This…**

The waiting room was meant to be pleasant. Light from a bright spring day filtered through the windows – the blinds raised to let it illuminate the room. There was a leather couch and two chairs set around a large wooden coffee table that had magazines artfully spread out on it – National Geographic, a magazine about photography and one about hiking. Neutral topics. Trowa had walked in, took in the surroundings, selected one of the chairs and sat, crossing one of his long legs over the other and slouching his shoulders. He reached out for one of the magazines and then decided against it and instead glanced out the window.

The waiting room window overlooked a park area – the grass bright and artificial, the trees swaying in a light colony breeze. The view was nice. Calming and pleasant. Probably meant to soothe the crazies.

Green eyes looked up to the abstract print on the wall. It was all in blues. Swirls. And he squinted at it a second before coming to the conclusion it looked like nothing. He wondered if it was a test – one of the tests for him to say what he saw. He'd done those before in psych evals – done to death with what he thought black splodges meant and tried not to say things like "dead puppies" or "person without head". Maybe he had no imagination. Probably didn't.

He was dressed casually, straight cut, slightly baggy jeans, brown leather belt and grey Preventer t-shirt. It was a warm day and he'd not bothered bringing a jacket – maybe he should've as he'd gotten his share of stares as he walked through the streets. Not because of his status as former Gundam Pilot 03 or Preventer hero. The burns. Down his neck and down most of his right side. Chemical burns, deep and weeping and raw and ugly. He decided he didn't care. Maybe that was why he sat waiting for his compulsory psychologist appointment. Or one of the many reasons.

Trowa looked at the door plaque and stifled a smile as the pretentious amount of letters after a single name.

**Dr. Chang Wufei**

**BSc (Hons), MA, Ph.D, CPhys**

The clock said 11.14 a.m., the glowing digital numerals on the wall along with the temperature and the air humidity. He played idly with the shoelace on one of his brown work boots and wondered if Wufei was like all the other doctors he'd ever met – making him wait beyond his appointment time. The only time he'd received swift treatment was the chemical burns and thank whatever God or Gods had granted him that small mercy – he had been frying in his own body, trying not to scream as his skin sizzled – sensations he never wanted to feel again.

Waiting. Waiting was hell. The clock had stubbornly turned to 11.15 a.m and he stopped playing with the shoelace and planted both feet firmly on the floor and stared at the door.

His fingers pushed his fringe to the side a little on instinct as one foot restlessly tapped on the floor. There was no need to brush his hair to the side anymore. His bang no longer covered his eye, it stopped just at his eyebrow, but some habits were ingrained and it was a nervous one. He didn't need to hide behind his hair anymore – he was twenty eight, not a teenage boy figuring out an identity or in his early twenties establishing himself as the Trowa Barton he wanted to be. Or the Trowa Barton he could be.

The door opened and a young woman exited. She glanced in Trowa's direction but looked slightly tearful and walked straight from the waiting room and out the door to the corridor. There was no dedicated receptionist for Dr. Chang. Trowa had signed in at the lobby, specified which office he was accessing and been directed vaguely by a perky girl who rang up to inform Chang that he had a visitor. The young woman must be a regular as she didn't stop in her stride. Knew the building and everything and the routines.

Trowa waited as a man he had not seen for years appeared in the doorway and nodded.

"Barton."

He didn't speak, instead nodded and got up heavily from the leather chair and walked into the office. There was no handshake between them, Wufei only motioned for him to take a particular chair in the same leather as those in the waiting room as he took a more standard office chair. In between the two chairs sat a small round table with a jug of water and a paper cup and a box of tissues. Trowa looked around the room to the desk with a state of the art computer, avoiding at first Wufei's gaze that had already seemed to take in his casual clothing and burns, in that always so calculated way.

The office had numerous book shelves – mainly texts on psychology but a few choice texts – the Art of War and such. The walls had certificates of all Wufei's many qualifications – his two doctorates and his ordinary degrees and his masters. The only thing that seemed out of place was a painting, or more a framed tapestry, of a red dragon. It was the only thing that didn't say standard psychologist's office. The only thing that said anything about the man sat in front of him after all these years.

"Do you know why you are here?" Wufei said simply.

"You have to clear me for active duty."

Wufei laughed in a faintly mocking way and Trowa tried to recall if he had ever heard the L5 native laugh. He wasn't a real laughing sort of man. But then they had very minimal contact over the years. Paths had diverged – careers totally different and no overlapping circle of friends. But this wasn't the same teenage boy he'd known. The war time Wufei Chang didn't wear glasses. Would have worn something that at least made some statement about the culture he was so proud of but now he was wearing a white shirt and black trousers. Smart shoes. Pretty dull. Very Western.

"I am not here to clear you for active duty. I am here as you have been suspended pending psychological assessment of you suitability to return to the Preventers at all."

"On full pay."

An eyebrow quirked.

"You needed to add that I'm suspended on full pay."

"Why is that important, Barton?"

Trowa shrugged. "If I was so emotionally volatile they wouldn't be paying me. Or for this. They'd have fired me – made me resign on medical grounds. They want me back in active duty."

"You value yourself that highly?"

"I am a very competent agent."

"No argument there… but perhaps, we have already got off on the wrong track."

"You started this  _track_."

"And I am putting an end to it."

The room was silent. Wufei had relaxed back a little into the deep leather of his chair and Trowa draped one arm over the back of his own and looked out the window. He could see the trees still – it was quite soothing. Maybe it  _was_  good for the crazies.

A thought occurred and Trowa looked back over to the ever patient Wufei Chang.

"Isn't this a conflict of interests? We were friends."

"Were is the operative word. We have barely seen one another in six years. I am also the leader in my field and therefore the best qualified to deal with this."

"Your field?"

"Post-traumatic stress disorder."

Trowa grunted. No other response for that. PTSD. Of course. That's what they thought.

"It was also noted that you tend to be hostile to medical professionals and considering our shared history, I may be suited to your temperament."

"Fine," Trowa said.

He had to be fine. Had to be here – forced as conditions of his suspension. The same suspension that he'd handed over his gun and badge to for the interim.

Silence again. Wufei's eyes were narrowed behind the glasses, frameless lenses that almost gave the impression he wasn't wearing them and Trowa met those eyes. He had an hour appointment – in fact, four weeks of hour long appointments and he was sure he could spend the entire four hour stretch in a staring contest with Dr. Chang. He was here out of necessity and he could be obstinate as he liked. Une had probably calculated that Trowa was more likely to speak to a former ally than the usual Preventer mental health team. However, he didn't feel like talking. Really didn't.

He resented the impression people had of him as quiet. He was not quiet – he spoke when necessary, talked when he had something to say rather than engaging in pleasantries and nothingness. People had perceived him as anything from rude to aloof to mute but he was none of those. Just more of a man of action than words. More a man of thoughts than speaking them out loud.

"This will be a long session if you are not going to speak to me," Wufei said finally.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"These sessions are for you, Barton. You should direct what we talk about."

"I don't want to talk."

"Apparently not but this is a waste of both our times if you don't."

Trowa shrugged. "You wear glasses now," he said, finally. It was something, just a stupid observation.

"My eye sight has always been poor – I wore contacts during the war."

"Didn't your doctor offer surgery?"

"I refused it," he said. Silence again. Trowa reached for the table and poured some water as a delaying tactic. Wufei spoke again, quietly, matter-of-factly. "You cut your hair."

He took a sip and the held the paper cup loosely in his right hand. "Not to Preventer standards."

"Don't lie or evade in this room, Barton. You were a Preventer the last time we met and you still had hair over your eye. When did you cut it?"

"Three years ago."

"When did Duo cut his braid off?"

"I don't want to talk about Duo."

Wufei leaned forward a little in his chair, eyes sparkling as though he'd won a small victory – known he'd hit a raw nerve. The rawest. More raw than the chemical burns that covered his arm, shoulder and neck.

"Did you use your hair to hide behind?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe or yes?"

"Yes."

"These sessions will be less torturous if you co-operate, Barton."

"Yes I used my hair as a method of hiding. It meant people couldn't read me entirely as they couldn't see both eyes. Happy?"

The black haired man smiled and sat back in his chair. "Ecstatic."

Another pause. Another silence. Trowa took another sip of water, every small action being observed and he was suddenly very aware of his body. How he held himself. How he sat. He didn't like Wufei's gaze, didn't like that analytical and judgemental look. He never really had. He supposed he'd never had the most functional relationships with any of the former Gundam pilots. Except Duo – but that was a whole different ball game. And it was hardly a successful relationship.

"You are aware I never liked you," Trowa said.

"The feeling was mutual, Barton."

"You were too high and mighty for my tastes. All honour and noble shit."

"And you were too good at hiding and pretending. You unsettled me. Always far too good at playing the enemy."

Green eyes glared and then flickered to the dragon tapestry. Wufei was the good doctor now – the one with the illustrious career and respected academic papers but in their conversations, he saw the sixteen year old boy fighting for the wrong side – the Eve War and Mariemaia. Wufei had become the enemy. Trowa had entered the Barton Foundation knowing they were wrong – Wufei didn't. But then Trowa had his fill of Barton's and knew they were all crooked and dangerous.

"Why did you cut it three years ago? Did anything significant happen?"

"Missions, paper work, usual."

"I have in your file that you took a month long leave of absence – June through July." He glanced at a file – Trowa recognised the logos and stamps of the Preventers. Copies handed to the doctor. "You had not taken any of your required vacation days up until this point in all your years of service. Care to explain?"

"I needed a vacation."

"Where did you go? The circus and Catherine, perhaps?"

"No."

"Did you spend it with Duo?"

"Off limits," he said, a low growl in his voice.

"For your mental health, I would advise that you not keep blocking Duo out of this conversation or our future sessions."

He gritted his teeth and gave a glare as strong as anything Heero Yuy could muster. He planned on downing the rest of the water, crushing the paper cup and throwing the damn thing at Wufei but then realised that was a childish and stupid action. He needed to do his mandatory four hours. He finished the water, threw the paper cup to the trash, making the shot and took a deep breath before answering the question.

"Yeah, I was with Duo – Hawaii."

"When did you start a relationship with Duo?"

"Eight years ago."

A smile almost crossed Trowa's face. Wufei had a brief moment of surprise on his otherwise composed face. They'd all still seen each other at that point – all tried to attend important moments. Been there for the wedding of the century when Heero actually married the princess, been there at the campaign speeches when Quatre stood for his first few rounds of elections, been there when Wufei graduated with one of his many degrees. They'd all come to Trowa's own Preventer graduation when he'd become a full agent after the years of training. Though Duo had never had an event for them to attend – he supposed they could've gone to see him jet off for the first time in  _The Helen_  but Duo hadn't had big moments. Just little ones.

Faded. Peaked at sixteen maybe. No, that wasn't true. He was quite happy – wanted to be a Spacer, a Sweeper and a scrap man. Wanted the freedom of his own space cruiser and didn't want the Preventers or the bullshit of politics. Just wanted to pilot and felt no obligation after the wars to do anything else. Admirable really. Duo did his bit for peace between fifteen and sixteen and hung up Shinigami when Deathscythe exploded. Trowa hadn't been able to live in peace, he'd tried but he was a merc at heart, and if the Preventers were willing to pay him to kill, he'd take the job.

He realised he'd drifted into memories again when Wufei's voice sounded impatient. Maybe he'd had to repeat himself. Trowa looked up.

"How would you characterise the relationship?"

How to characterise it? Trowa remembered that first time – all bad vodka and cigarette smoke and cheap linen sheets. Duo pulling him through the door, all tongues and teeth and hands. He should mention that they started after one of Wufei's graduations – probably say that they'd got bored and found alcohol and were already pretty hammered by the end of the ceremony. More hammered after the champagne and strawberries after-party function and they'd gone back to the hotel together – a cheap one – having bought vodka on the way and fell down drunken on the bed. Both a little to uncoordinated to remove clothing but getting out of it enough to fuck, clumsily, all out of rhythm. Taking a while to get anywhere as they were on the verge of being too drunk but got there, determined maybe, and then he had Duo underneath him and it was good. All hot and sticky and smelling of booze and full of clashing of teeth and stops and starts. Changes of position as they didn't seem to work all that well together that first time – all out of alignment, maybe, off kilter but they learnt after that first night. They both weren't anywhere near virginal but it felt awkward – weird those first few times but it got better. Hell, it got better.

"Sexual," he answered.

"You spent a month vacation and eight years in a relationship with Duo and you term it as only sexual?"

Trowa shrugged. "Friends with benefits, maybe."

Friends with benefits sounded okay – fuck buddies probably. They may have done the vacation thing three years ago but hadn't done it since. It had been fine for a week – hiking, fishing, snorkelling, fucking but they weren't exactly compatible all the time. They irritated the hell out of each other but then that was the vacation when Duo came down from the bathroom in that two storey wooden beachside house and had no braid. Just gone. And they didn't discuss it as Trowa walked to the bathroom and grabbed the same pair of scissors and snipped off most of his bangs, the lighter brown hair falling into the sink alongside Duo's chestnut brown from where he'd attempted to even up the damage as the braid sat on the floor, snake like. Stupid really. Both of them. A stupid discussion, drunk on tequila the night before, when Duo was running his fingers through his hair, moving the bangs and exposing both eyes.

"You need to quit hiding, Tro'."

A conversation about hair – about fucking hair – and they'd ended up arguing. Trowa made a comment about the braid, something about getting a little old for it and that was it. Fireworks. A few punches and sleeping alone. Too temperamental. It was easier not to have conversations – to just define it all as sexual as then they didn't piss each other off. Never discussed it again. It was three years and he still sometimes found it weird seeing Duo without the braid. Sometimes couldn't pick him out in a crowd – at a bar stool – took a second of recognition.

"Were you exclusive?"

Trowa blinked and looked up, realised he'd drifted off into memory. "No. I slept with a few people – he slept with whoever he wanted. No strings."

"But you maintained a relationship for eight years. It seems more than just something sexual."

"We weren't commitment types."

"You or him?"

"Both."

Wufei frowned and glanced over to the clock. They'd been at this for forty five minutes. The time had actually gone pretty quick, Trowa realised. Maybe it was better to talk during these stupid things. He stretched a little in his seat and winced at the searing pain down his side, the stretching of synthetic skin and his own skin and wounds.

"You don't hide your wounds."

The words seemed odd. The sudden change in conversation startled Trowa and he took a second to orientate himself. Maybe that was a tactic. Talk about Duo – fuck his head up and then turn it back to the wounds and the Preventer mission that had brought him here.

"I don't see the point."

"We established that you hid behind your hair, correct? And you were known as an infiltrator."

"Yeah and your point fucking is?"

"You were known as the one among us who hid and disguised himself. You were the one who didn't stand out and blended in. You didn't hide your wound. You must have got looks from civilians, I imagine."

Trowa only nodded. He'd had looks – plenty of them. A little girl pointing – made him feel a bit like the elephant man or something. Least the mother had told her off for pointing.

"You don't want to blend or hide anymore."

"I forgot a jacket, Chang – it's a warm day, nothing more psychologically enlightening."

"You want to stand out now, I think. You want people to see the physical scars as you cannot deal with the emotional ones."

"I forgot my fucking jacket."

"Why didn't you go to the funeral?"

The question felt like a punch to the gut. Sucker punch and all. Trowa stood and decided it was over. He was done. Wufei was sneaky – all insidiously working to get him to say things – using that war time antagonism. Making it seem like a war, a game, a battle of wits – something he'd understand.

"Sit down, Barton or you'll never work for the Preventers again."

Trowa stopped and looked over at Wufei, sitting calmly. All composure and clean white lines and those stupid glasses.

"That's blackmail."

"No, Barton. I am the only chance you have of getting back into the Preventers. You tried to kill yourself on a mission. Death by chemical bomb."

"I wasn't killing myself."

"You needlessly put yourself in the line of fire – I would call that suicide."

Trowa realised he'd not made his way halfway across the room. Pathetic really. Hadn't even tried to exit dramatically. He walked back to the chair and sat forward, more confrontationally than before.

"I did not try to kill myself."

"I still believe you did. You'll have to convince me otherwise but you have three more sessions to do that."

The clock had magically turned to 12.13 p.m. Wufei was rising from his office chair and Trowa took that as his indication that he could leave. He felt like he'd been scrubbed raw and they hadn't even gone beyond the surface. Dr. Chang was good it seemed.

Wufei offered his hand and Trowa took it, the friendly gesture seeming out of place and step with their surroundings.

"On a personal level, I am glad to see you. We may not be friends or like one another but we were comrades and I feel that I have missed a part of myself not seeing you, Trowa."

Their hands returned to their sides. Wufei still stood very straight – all that martial arts posture and Trowa naturally slouched – all due to his height and feeling like he was too damn tall for most people.

"Yeah, thanks, Wufei."

"I would advise you to get in touch with the others in your therapy. Analyse your feelings."

Trowa nodded though had no intention of doing that. "Until next week."

"Yes, until next week, Barton."

 


	2. Session Two

**~ Session Two ~**

**Oh, It's the Little Things you Miss**

The choices of tea were confusing. Trowa stood behind a pair of young women ordering some coffee concoction that was more foam and milk and chocolate than actual coffee. He looked at the menu on a chalkboard and just decided to make a guess. He didn't drink tea. Hardly drank coffee anymore but if he was it would be strong and black. Hell, he hardly drank alcohol anymore. Twenty eight was perhaps the point in life when drinking to the point of fuzzy blurriness no longer held the same pleasure. Trowa really wasn't sure but couldn't really remember the last time he'd got hammered.

Oh shit. He could. After Quatre's call.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The barista was chirpy and smiley. And generally, Trowa's disposition at this time in the morning was not so chipper. He ordered drinks without being rude – no small feat and managed not to bite back at the questions about loyalty cards and larger sizes. He went for oolong tea. He had no idea if Wufei drank that type of tea but knew he drank tea – remembered it, like Quatre was always tea. He could remember Duo's drinks of choice but most of them were alcoholic. Rum and coke if they were mixing though it had to be decent rum and then bourbon straight. Decent beers – not piss water or light and sometimes that was a challenge. If he stayed over, black coffee or espresso, the morning after. Not tea. Never tea.

The drinks were handed over in a cardboard container and Trowa decided to tip. Maybe he was in a better mood than usual on a Tuesday morning prior to ten a.m.

The coffee shop was a short distance from Dr. Chang's office and the day was warm – the colony temperature system at a pleasant sixty degrees. He'd worn a sweater, the black wool bobbling as it was old and something he barely wore anymore. Probably a Christmas or birthday present off Catherine. She liked to buy him clothes and they were always very practical and boring. The v neck exposed some of the chemical burn but he decided long ago he wasn't going to spend his entire life in turtlenecks. He wasn't going to go back to that now.

He entered the building, signed in and walked up to the waiting room without asking where he needed to go. The room looked identical – same magazines even. He thought about making a comment about changing them as there was a sense of déjà-vu sitting in the waiting room. Today, he didn't get time to take a seat as the door to the office was open.

"Barton."

This time Wufei didn't get up. He was sat behind the large desk, typing quickly on the computer and glanced up at Trowa who nodded.

"I will be one moment. Make yourself comfortable."

Trowa did. Separated his own Americano coffee out of the cardboard container and took an experimental sip – it was hot but not too hot. The time taken to walk the short distance had cooled it enough to be drinkable. He needed caffeine – being given free time was not something that suited him and even with the doctors' appointments and check-ups for his wounds, he was bored and listless. He'd cleaned his apartment, contemplated painting the bathroom and tried to read. His sleeping patterns were completely sporadic since the stay in hospital. They had given him a plentiful supply of drugs that had made him hazy, blurry and sleepy and since coming off them and having nothing useful to do with himself, he'd spent the weeks since discharge sleeping fitfully whenever he felt like it and staying awake most nights. Last night he'd not slept – tried to go to bed at a normal hour but given up, smoked a little having found some of Duo's old cigarettes hidden in the couch cushion and sat at the window as a spring rain cycle rushed though the colony.

Wufei completed his typing and got up from his desk, noticing the paper cup and cardboard container.

"A peace offering, Barton?"

"Bribery, maybe," he replied with a shrug, taking another sip of his own coffee. "Didn't know what tea you drank, went for oolong."

"Oolong is fine."

He took the tea and opened the lid to remove the tea bag, throwing that in the trash before taking his seat.

"The appointment is earlier."

"Yes, my usual patient attempted to kill herself this week so I moved my slots around."

Trowa's eyes narrowed at the casual and matter of fact tone. He was pretty sure he was using the circumstances of that patient, whether true or not, to start the session on the topic of suicide. A topic he was unwilling to speak of. Wasn't relevant.

"I thought there was doctor/patient confidentiality."

"There is but I feel shock therapy is probably the only thing that will work on you." Wufei drank some tea, studying Trowa through the steam for any reactions. "Thank you for the tea. It is all so very… civil for you."

"You don't think I'm civil?"

"You only have ever been civil to people when necessary. The rest you ignore or refuse to speak to."

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"I'll not be civil to you. I'll ignore you for the rest of the sessions."

He got a harsh laugh for that. Wufei had that weird look in his eyes again – a look of triumph. Trowa wondered if he was working out his reactions – assessing how far he could push things still. He watched him closely, those uncomfortable x-ray black eyes taking everything in, and he was starting to hate it.

"You're covering your wounds today."

"Yeah, I decided to wear a sweater. Big deal."

"It's black."

"It's a sweater," he replied, blandly.

"Black – the colour of mourning."

"I'm not in mourning."

"Duo wore black."

Trowa rolled his eyes – a very Duo-like gesture. True, Duo had been in black for the first war and mostly for the Eve War but that was fifteen and sixteen year old Duo. The young man he became didn't stick to the black as much, tended to have that old school Americana thing going for him – all scruffy old Levi's and checked shirts with tanks underneath. Tattoos of swallows and anchors that the Sweepers had drunkenly got him to have during poker games – never bet Duo Maxwell to do anything, something that Trowa learnt, as he will follow through. There had been a drinking contest that he still didn't remember. Something about celebrating twenty firsts – around the time he was close to getting enough money to buy the wreck that became  _the Helen._ Trowa remembered throwing up and sleeping on a hotel floor in his own vomit. He never bet Duo to anything again. Still didn't understand how he could be drunk under the table by Duo – he was far too skinny to absorb all the alcohol. Never understood.

"I don't want to talk about Duo."

"Then we talk about Agent Skylark."

"Fine."

"How long have you been partnered with Agent Skylark?"

"Six months."

"And your feelings towards her?"

"She's young. She's all fresh academy bullshit."

That was unfair. He knew it was but then Meaghan wasn't there and would never know what he said. He'd spent his first few years in the Preventers in deep cover assignments where morality and assignments verged into a grey area. However, it was decided that undercover operatives should only have a limited service time due to the demanding and dangerous line of work. Trowa had been moved to standard agent duty at twenty four and worked in the anti-terrorism unit. It meant he had a desk.

"You have a desk? That, like, makes you Mr 9 til 5. Tro, it's like you're domesticated and shit."

Duo was laid across his chest, his braid still trailing down and for some reason Trowa had wrapped the end round his hand a few times, almost like some kind of leash.

"I don't know why I tell you anything. I get sarcasm."

"You love my sarcasm."

Lips met his and Trowa ran a hand down Duo's back, feeling the bumps of his spine, each bone in relief against skin. He felt movement behind closed eyes as a body straddled him and Trowa opened his mouth more to permit more tongue, more breath, more anything as it became more heated. This was easy between them – it was conversation and anything else that was hard. They parted and Duo was looking into his eyes.

"Wanna go again?"

"Yeah."

"Gotta love your recovery time, Tro."

He moved quickly enough to get a slight grunt of surprise from Duo – only a momentary thing as he reversed their position and had him pinned underneath his own body swiftly.

"You only want me for this…." Trowa said.

Lips met neck, trailing a pattern with a slight scraping of teeth.

"No, I want you for your amazing conversation skills."

Trowa couldn't help the laugh. He couldn't actually remember the last time he'd laughed but there he was – Duo looked concerned for a second and put a hand to his forehead.

"Are you sick or something or did I actually just make you laugh?"

"I can laugh I just choose not to do it often."

Duo's mouth opened again to say something but those words were halted by a tongue and then fingers trailing downwards – searchingly and knowingly flicking certain spots and then further downwards to where there was still slickness from their recent fuck. As Trowa slid one finger inside, he couldn't help a small smirk as the man underneath him made an incoherent sound but no words. There had always been one way very effective way to make Duo stop joking.

It took a moment to return to his present after the intense haze of another memory. He wasn't meant to be thinking about Duo but somehow it all came back to him at inappropriate times – little things while he seemed to be already losing other more important moments. But he wasn't meant to be thinking about Duo – he was meant to be thinking about Meaghan, no fucking Agent Skylark, as her codename dictated.

Agent Skylark, he frowned at the codename. Trowa had done enough time in the Preventers to have gone through numerous code names – currently it was Wolf and that was fine. He'd had so many particularly awful ones over the years that Wolf was damn near likeable. Tended always to be animals for him, suspected the superiors had linked his past as part time lion tamer and gave his code names as some kind of amusement.

Skylark suited Meaghan – young, innocent, yet to have spent the ten years wading through terrorist cells and criminals and the garden variety whack jobs. He knew he'd been teamed up with her due to his decade of experience in the Preventers but to a veteran, working with a rookie was an irritant. Trowa knew he wasn't the most sociable person in the world anyway. Give him a rookie who asked a million questions and it was a recipe for near constant grouchiness. He supposed his commanding officers saw him becoming more belligerent in his relative old age and needed a bright young thing to make him less cynical. But damn, did she have to talk so much? Very much like a fifteen year old Duo Maxwell, he supposed, the boy that he'd been not the man he became.

"Why are you so protective of Agent Skylark? In your file, it mentions various incidents of events where you either ordered her to retreat or stepped in her way in dangerous situations."

Trowa shrugged in an automatic response but recognised the severe glare over the top of the rimless glasses. He took a sip of his coffee and contemplated the answer. "She's young."

The criticism was probably a little trite from someone who was a mercenary from as early as he could remember – had fought two wars by the time he was sixteen but she seemed younger than the eight or so year age gap.

"Are you sleeping with Skylark?"

The question almost made him choke on his last swallow of brown liquid and he put the cup down. "No."

"Then you must associate her as someone you need to protect. You were very protective of Catherine during the wars."

"She's young," he answered, stubbornly, sticking to his one answer strategy. He sighed and elaborated. "She's a rookie. Idealistic. Stupid sometimes."

"Stupid?"

The word sounded harsh repeated back in the clinical Dr. Chang method.

"Just reckless."

"Like Duo?"

"I don't –"

"Yes, I believe we've had this conversation twice already in these sessions. I know you don't want to talk about Duo but I believe that we have to."

A grunt was all that Wufei got in response. Trowa's eyes drifted towards the window and the greenness of the L1 park.

"You didn't talk to the others."

It wasn't a question, Trowa knew that, it was a statement. He'd tried to call Quatre. Not very hard but had tried to make contact. Called and got through to a secretary or PA or something and left a vague message that may have made him sound like a crackpot. Probably didn't pass it on. But then he really hadn't wanted to talk to Quatre – went out of his way to avoid him these days, not that they had fallen out or anything, just that Quatre still had that art of seeing past the masks and shadows that he used to distract and avoid emotional connections.

"I tried to call Quatre."

The words sounded lame. He had time, damn, he had nothing but time, he could call the private residence number he had, he could call at the right hours and work out the time zone on whichever L4 colony he was on – whichever mining satellite he was working on or whatever he was doing right now.

"Tried?"

"I called a few times."

"And Yuy?"

"No," he said, automatically, the abruptness of his response startling Wufei.

He could hear Duo's voice in his head for some reason. "Hostile much, Tro?" Something like that. Telling him he was being aggressive for no reason.

"We don't get on very well – not since he became aware of my relationship with Duo."

"I wasn't aware."

Trowa defaulted to shrugging and stretching back a little more in the chair. "Heero felt I used Duo."

He knew Wufei was going to prod now – gave him an opening that he wouldn't have expected. Maybe explained why Trowa withdrew entirely from social events that required the five of them to be in a room together so long ago. Maybe explained a lot.

"How would you classify your relationship with Heero?"

He noted the shift from surname to Christian name with a little quirk of his lips. "Okay up until…"

"You started sleeping with Duo?" Wufei offered.

"It wasn't any of his business."

"He was Duo's best friend."

Trowa shook his head – it sounded juvenile discussing Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell as "best friends" – made them sound like they should be baking cookies together and having sleeping overs, painting each other's nails and braiding each other's hair. Though, he supposed, that would have been possible on Duo's part until three years ago.

"You reject that statement."

"No, it just makes them sound like ten year old girls."

He got a slight hint of a smile for that. Seemed Wufei realised the childishness of the statement.

"I'll rephrase – they were always close. Did you ever feel threatened?"

Green eyes blinked. "Threatened?"

"Did you feel that you competed in Duo's affections with Heero?"

"No."

"He spent three weeks aboard  _the Helen_ during the divorce proceedings."

He didn't need to remember that – didn't need to remember Duo being in his apartment when the world's perfect marriage imploded or exploded or whatever it had done. Knew Duo was using his vid phone almost constantly for three days, they didn't even fuck much that weekend and he'd had a vague boiling anger towards Heero as he occupied Duo's time with woe-is-me crap that he wouldn't have believed possible of the wartime Perfect Soldier.

Then the divorce came and with it the three weeks aboard  _the Helen._ He remembered the shifty attitude Duo had adopted as he explained that Heero needed to be away from it – the press, Sanc and all the hangers on. How he needed a friend and to be away from it all.

"Why do you care what I think?"

"Jesus, Tro, because you and Heero hate each other because of some macho bullshit thing and I don't want you to get pissy about this."

He was packing up – shirts and t-shirts and spare pairs of boxers all going in the grey duffle. Trowa leaned against the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest and observing the way Duo moved – the unconscious things he did. A hand that always pushed those slightly too long bits of bangs away from his face, how he moved still with that fluidity that suggested those long repressed stealth skills – how the braid slowly trailed as he moved. He never knew what to say to Duo – never knew the  _right_ thing. Should say something about how he was an insecure jerk who thought that as soon as Heero divorced the princess, he might try to fuck his best friend despite the whole straight thing. All he'd get was the same line, a roll of eyes, perhaps even a fucking pout and a glare – "Heero's straight" and that was the end of the conversation.

Trowa wanted to have a conversation. Mention that maybe after four years it was time to become exclusive or whatever. Discuss the fact he was insecure as he struggled to see why Duo still came – still stopped in L1 cluster whenever he could – they were long past the early stages of it being all about fucking and endorphins and that desperate _wanting_ that happened in those first few months of a relationship. He'd even stopped screwing around. That phase was probably over anyway – it got old sleeping with girls who didn't remember his name. Always tended to be chicks, felt vaguely like cheating if it was another man – sure there was something in that twisted psychology that Wufei would enjoy when Trowa thought about it now. But he hadn't said anything.

"I was fine with it."

"Really? For someone who suggests that the relationship was sexual and nonexclusive, you seem to have issues with possessiveness."

Did he? He probably did. He shrugged non-committedly. He didn't know how to answer that and decided to look out the window instead.

He supposed he felt, maybe, just left out. Always felt on the edge of the other pilots despite Duo's attempts. He'd retreated from them when he joined the Preventers being the only one that had continued to kill after the wars – thought they looked at him as the black sheep of their fucked up little family. The one who didn't give up the weapon. Heero with his marriage to the Queen of Peace, Duo with  _the Helen_ , Quatre with his family business and politics and Wufei with his degrees and education. It was only Trowa who'd not moved on, still a solider just this time he wore a uniform and had a badge rather than piloted a Gundam.

"We never defined the relationship. I never knew where I stood."

The honesty of the answer startled even Trowa. It was the crux of it. He never knew what it was – never knew if it was just fucking or if it had developed into something more over the years.

"You were worried he'd leave you. Betray you."

"I've been betrayed before."

Wufei nodded solemnly. "We all have."

Trowa blinked and met Wufei's eye, they all remembered bitterly being betrayed by the colonies and being isolated and only  _them_  but they all had their own moments of personal betrayal. He carried his own tightly to his chest. Still thought about his old captain. The one merc group that didn't treat him badly – they were drunkards and assholes but they weren't bad. It had been as near as family as he'd ever become – even Catherine paled in comparison to that solidarity in his formative years.

They waited, sat suspended in the moment until Wufei cleared his throat to indicate the time and alert Trowa to the end of the session. It had seemed less painful in some ways and more so in others.

"I want you to meet with Quatre before the next session. I will call and arrange it if you do not, Barton."

"I can arrange my own life."

"I am aware of that but you have always needed… shall we say a push to do anything you do not want to do."

"I'll call him."

"Good."

Trowa rose from his seat, grabbing the empty coffee cup and the cardboard holder to deposit in the trash on his way out. Wufei watched his deliberate actions and didn't leave his chair.

"I will call Winner myself if you don't," he said in warning.

He had no comeback for it so instead he just nodded and left the room to see the next patient sitting outside reading a magazine and left with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach at the call he had to damn well make.

 


	3. Session Three

**~ Session Three** ~

**All Your Friends Seem like Enemies**

The restaurant choice was more upmarket than Trowa would've picked for what was meant to be a casual lunch. He had a feeling Quatre hadn't selected it either – probably one of the army of people who organised his life that had made the reservation. Trowa always remembered Quatre in the past, always conscious of how awkward he felt with extravagance and usually wouldn't pick somewhere so imposing.

He pushed the door and entered the bistro and tugged self-consciously at the button down shirt. It was black and he'd left a few buttons undone at the top, some of his skin showing as well as the chemical burn. He rolled up the sleeves to the elbow, making his appearance more casual, more comfortable, more  _him_ even though it was a nice place in the business district. He still couldn't get himself to act appropriately – a rebellious streak cultivated by being raised by mercs who were unanswerable to anyone and only encouraged by the time spent in Duo's company.

He supposed he was late as it surprised him to see Quatre already at the table – the secluded booth to the rear of the restaurant was out of the way of observers and two glasses of ice water were already poured. The maître de looked at him as expected, he may have acquiesced to a shirt as a gesture of good will and friendship towards Quatre but he was in jeans – ones without holes forming at the knees and fraying bottoms where he stood on them but they were still jeans.

"I'm here to meet Mr. Winner."

The maître de looked ready to say something snarky and be a general dick but Quatre had risen to his feet in greeting and while the slimy bastard looked shocked, he hid it well and inclined his head in the direction of the table.

"Follow me."

Fancy places never ceased to amaze Trowa – stupid food and arrogant staff and pretentious menus full of provenance. Finest L1-X11278 hydroponic grown tomatoes. Wine imported from organic vineyards in the Bordeaux region of France. Freshly made bread served with pats of butter infused with truffles and imported chilli oil. And all so well presented.

They'd all done their time being taken to restaurants like this – Duo usually behaved, tried to be nice to Quatre's feelings and not bitch too much about the wastefulness of fancy places. Usually was being polite and contained though Trowa remembered a place like this and a hand on his thigh, early on in whatever the hell they were doing, when they were still five Gundam pilots who saw each other, and offered something in deep low words to his ear. And Duo was walking towards the men's room, that stupid extra movement of his hips that he did in an attempt to be sensual that made his braid move just  _so_ against the curve of his ass and Trowa followed as that's what he was meant to do. Meant to be sucked off in a toilet stall, meant to have his hands in Duo's hair and have his cock in that mouth and quietly come into a willing throat.

The memory was sharp, cloying, and it brought the taste of sweat and his own cum to his lips – remembering the press of the kiss afterwards, the way Duo just wiped the sleeve of his shirt against his mouth and kissed him hard and while Trowa didn't return the favour, he put hands into black tailored suit pants and jerked him off, a little roughly and a little quickly knowing that they were expected back and letting cum splash against the side of the stall rather than on either of their clothing.

Trowa had grabbed for tissue, wiping stickiness off his hands and then exited the stall allowing Duo a few moments to adjust himself and come down from orgasm. He'd washed his hands and was splashing water on his face when Duo emerged looking pretty much as he always did. His face didn't betray the encounter.

"You should go back first," he'd said, calmly, green eyes meeting blue.

"Heero knows. Wufei's smart and might figure it out and Quat -"

"I don't want Quatre to know."

Their eyes met through the reflection of mirrors and Duo just shrugged. "Fine."

He'd realised even then – incompetent, barely twenty, that he'd hurt Duo's feelings as the clipped response was very un-Duo-like.

"I don't know what this is," Trowa said.

Duo was nearly out of the bathroom but paused at the door. "Neither do I."

Never did know. Not then. Not now. Never knew why he'd not wanted to tell Quatre – maybe as it always felt like he'd make something of it. Try to make something more of them than they could be. It had taken years for Quatre to find out and that did make him feel a small amount of guilt.

They had arrived at the table and the maître de departed with a small flourish of hand and Quatre stood, offering his hand in friendship like he always did. Always had.

"Trowa."

He nodded in response. The positives about the long friendship he had with Quatre were that there were never any expectations from him to begin any discussions – Quatre would quite happily lead them. Always wanted to be friends with Trowa, always  _tried_ so goddamn hard with him, even since that first day and that stupid move of surrendering and coming out from his Gundam cockpit. Duo always said that Quatre's MO was feeling guilty and always would be. That Quatre always had issues with guilt and that he told Heero, once, many years ago that Quatre would blame himself for the lack of air in space if he could.

"Famous Winner guilt complex," Duo said.

And Trowa was always going to be the one he felt most guilty about – leaving him floating in space – cold and vulnerable and a shell. It was always going to be why he tried so hard. Why he wanted to give him jobs and why he was so forceful with his friendship. It was why there never was anything between them. No, that wasn't quite true, there were a few fumbling moments, a few illicit fleeting kisses and gropes but Trowa couldn't spend his life trying to make Quatre Raberba Winner feel less guilty.

Trowa had laid his own ghosts to rest and didn't think about the things that he did – the bodies he'd created and still did to this day.

"You look good," Quatre said as Trowa slid into the booth opposite him.

"The wounds are healing."

Blue eyes sparkled in curiosity. "Do they hurt?"

No one had really asked him that – not Wufei, he'd only asked why he hid them. The doctor just asked about how the skin felt when stretched and looked at them closely as they continued to weep. No one had asked if they  _hurt_. But that was Quatre. Always bringing it to the root of everything right off the bat – maybe the question was loaded. It would be typically Quatre to mean more – to mean the emotional wounds as well as the physical and even after the gulf of years and the distance that Trowa had tried to create between them – Quatre still  _knew_ him.

"They hurt. The synthetic skin seems to stretch my own skin. Hurts to sleep."

"You look like you're not sleeping. I can always tell with you."

"It's difficult."

It was difficult to sleep when sheets stuck to barely healed wounds and when he still thought he smelt Duo on the sheets, even though that was impossible. He'd washed them weeks ago. There was always something that lingered.

He decided to look at the menu for a moment, reading the French names and attempting to avoid Quatre's eyes a little. It seemed Quatre did not want this to be another conversation of avoidance – Trowa's MO as much as guilt and blame was Quatre's. Trowa had always been a pattern of push away, suppress, avoid and bury it. He supposed that was why Wufei enjoyed their sessions. Probably liked the challenge of his stubbornness.

"It was beautiful."

Trowa swallowed thickly and didn't need to ask what "it" was. Always knew what Quatre wanted to say to him, always shook him to the core, reminded him why he'd built the wall between them.

"Howard did the eulogy. It was funny. Lots of stories."

It made sense – Howard would be the least morose and probably had the most ammunition. Heero would've been bleak – his steady monotones depressing but he would've been the only other one that could do it. But Howard had that affection that bordered on family bonds and Duo had spent so much time aboard Sweeper vessels. Trowa remembered in those early years, before  _the Helen_  was bought and patched up and working, staying on Sweeper ships when he visited. He knew Howard liked to tell one particular story but he was sure that one would've been omitted in a eulogy – he'd loved trying to embarrass Duo with it but Duo never had the decency to blush or give a shit that the old man had seen them in the middle of fucking. Usually Duo had turned it round on Howard, made some comments about age and virility and Viagra and getting it up. Then it descended into dick jokes – inappropriate for a funeral but really would've been more suited to Duo than anything sombre.

"I said a few words."

Trowa looked up to see Quatre expression somewhat distant. His hand was holding his chin up and Trowa observed the signs of age and what the slight wear of reaching their late twenties had done. The slight hint of stubble. The darker blond of his hair – darkened from his teenage brightness whether through vanity or nature. Quatre always used to look the youngest of them, the blond and blue eyed boy, but now he didn't. They'd all grown into men. Duo without a braid looked older. He supposed he did without the bang of hair.

"I told a few war stories. I talked about how much he wanted and fought for  _the Helen…_  but I wanted to talk about you."

It was tempting to reply that there was nothing to tell. There were no great stories. It wasn't a great romance that spanned earth and the colonies. It was weekends of sex and drinking, an aborted vacation, years of playing pretend and pretending that they didn't want more. Two people too stubborn and immature to stop acting like dicks to each other.

"Why Trowa? After everything… why?"

There was a tone of accusation but also of hurt. Yes, he didn't know Quatre as well as he used to but he knew that tone and it was definitely hurt.

"I was on a mission."

"Don't evade with me. You could've declined one mission. You could've applied for exceptional circumstances. You  _chose_ not to. It was a choice, Trowa."

He didn't know how to answer. From the corner of his eye, he saw the waitress trying to decide whether to interrupt and try to take a food order but decided it against it once Quatre began to speak again. Another reliable Winner trait – had to talk, always had to get his point across and let Trowa know how much of a prick he was. He waited for it but the words that came weren't harsh truths about his deficiencies.

"I just wish… I just wish he was still here. That I'd be able to knock your heads together and make you realise…" he stopped, unsure, took a moment. Trowa wondered if he wanted to use the "love" word but they'd both been skittish around that subject. "You just were both too stubborn for your own goods. Never admitted you needed anyone because it's all some big weakness. Too damn independent. Both of you."

He should respond, Trowa knew he probably should but words faltered on his lips. He didn't have to defend himself – relieved for once that he wasn't the one taking all the blame. It always seemed like he usually did, that everybody interpreted Duo as open and warm and friendly and that it was Trowa who didn't want more and who didn't make what they had into  _something_. Into something with permanence. Nobody knew Duo like he did – nobody saw how he pushed away as much if not more, that when things got too heavy, when words were murmured in the heat of the moment, whispered over slick skin as bodies slid together, that he blocked it out and ran back to  _the Helen_ and the comfort of space and isolation.

Trowa's barriers and walls were hard to break but then Duo's were just as bad. They really had been entirely wrong for each other. Only looking back did it become more obvious.

Quatre continued, his voice low and words carefully chosen. "When I realised what was happening between you… I was happy. I only ever wanted you to be happy, Trowa, and I knew that we could never…" His words faded into the gap between them that was both literal and metaphorical. "I thought Duo would make you happy. I thought he'd force you out of that –  _armour_  – you have around you. But it never happened. You still have it and now it's only going to get worse."

There was a jolt that went through his body as a hand touched his own. Quatre's hands had always been so much smaller than Trowa's – less calloused due to years of being behind a desk and making speeches and shaking hands. His skin tone was all colony induced just as Duo's was – never tanned like Trowa did from his own origins on earth. Nothing like Duo's hands that were all cuts and scrapes and grease residue under his finger nails. Quatre's finger nails looked manicured – Duo wouldn't have suffered such an indignity – bit them down in fits of nervous energy while he smoked.

"Let us back in. Complete your therapy with Wufei but let us back in, Trowa. We all lost a part of ourselves too. You don't have to be alone."

The pleading words were making him uncomfortable but he nodded, a short slow nod, and knew it would be what Duo would've wanted. Make his peace with Quatre. And the other's…

"You should see Heero. He'll be through this colony in the next few weeks. He has a rally."

"Something I never thought I'd see. Yuy kissing babies."

Quatre gave a smile – one of those small ones that just curved his lips and it made him looked fifteen again. He'd never been a fan of Trowa's blatant cynicism – Duo's cynicism was usually wrapped up in a funny phrase or complimented by a wide grin whereas he deadpanned.

"He'll make a good senator," Quatre said.

"His numbers good?"

"Very. War hero. Symbolic name. L1 native."

"Your money."

"Of course… the divorce may hinder him since Ryland is a family man but then I think the other factors will sway voters."

Trowa nodded, remembered seeing the campaign vidfeeds and seeing a few speeches. Heero had lost none of his intensity but then the style consultants had given him an air of casualness in his clothing to try and combat that. Found the whole concept of Heero Yuy as a politician weird at times. Mentioned it to Duo once that it seemed like teasing death – running for senate with the name of an assassinated politician but Duo just elbowed him in the ribs and told him he was just sometimes "too fucking cynical".

"I think we should order – the waitress has been waiting to approach for the past half an hour," Quatre said, returning his gaze to the menu.

"Yeah."

* * *

"You met with Winner?"

The office felt overly bright today. He'd not slept last night, the conversations with Quatre rattling through his brain, and then he'd just given up and wandered the apartment until he couldn't do that anymore and walked out to try and find somewhere still serving alcohol. He didn't succeed but found a twenty four hour mini mart and bought a six pack and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

He felt hung over. He'd not done that since Quatre's three thirty-four a.m call. The call that said  _The Helen_ had exploded – faulty engine part or something - and Duo was dead.

"Yeah."

"Just because you're hung over does not mean I am going to go on easy on you, Barton."

Trowa grunted in response. It was the best Wufei was going to get.

"What did you discuss?"

"Duo."

He could see Wufei straighten in his chair and his eyes had narrowed. It was the first time he'd volunteered anything and it looked like Wufei was citing this as progress. It didn't feel like progress to Trowa – his head was thumping hard and his breath was rancid and he was in desperate need of sleep so he had little energy to fight back. He looked towards the clock on the wall and despaired when only ten minutes had gone by since he walked in this morning.

"Specifically?"

"The funeral."

"Do you regret not attending?"

"There was no body. He wasn't religious. It seemed pointless."

"It provides closure. A moment to remember. To discuss. It wasn't about the body or lack of it – it was about remembering a life."

"I can remember in my own way."

He could remember in his own way, his patchwork of memories that he could trace by remembering whether Duo had the braid or not and whether he'd started making those stupid holes in his ears – ear stretching or something. Seen it somewhere and decided he'd do it – had no fucking idea where Duo got his ideas from. Spacers tended to be a breed apart. All that time alone or with small crews.

"Is that why you got drunk?"

Trowa thought about it. He'd just been unable to sleep, those few choice words echoing in his head – all those words about armour and the funeral and it just got him thinking. Quatre – that was Quatre, always getting into his skull more than anyone could apart from Duo.

"Quatre said I have armour. That I never let anyone in."

"What do you think of that statement?"

"I think I let people in enough."

"Enough."

"Enough," he repeated back.

"Define enough."

"I let people know what they need to know."

"What did Duo know?"

He wanted to say the word enough again but he imagined it would test Wufei's patience. He could tell he was irritating the psychologist today with his reticence and his foul mood and his stupid, stupid hangover. Trowa had told him most things – those stories of him being No Name and alone from as early as he could remember, how he'd taken the name of a dead condescending rich boy who deserved the bullet he got and how he felt that killing was the only thing he'd ever really known how to do. He omitted bits – some of the merc groups he'd drifted through, some of the atrocities he'd seen with some of those men and some of his own beatings and hardships. That mark on his back had never gone – the harsh slap of heavy leather belt on skin but Duo never asked. Sure as hell saw it, years of being physically intimate, sharing and taking from each other's bodies equally and having tongue and hands explore every inch meant Duo  _knew_ his old scars but he hadn't needed to know that. Just as he never asked what every scar on Duo's body was from.

The love affair of two ex-soldier orphans was not candy and roses.

"More than anyone."

Really he had. Quatre had always felt he knew everything about Trowa – thought he could read him but really it was only Duo who understood. Quatre never had the visceral terror of not wanting to close his eyes at night as a child for fear of the men in a mercenary camp. He knew about death and violence only once he piloted Sandrock, not before that – not since childhood. There was always going to be that barrier between them – that great divide and he could  _never_ tell Quatre so many things. Could never tell him how cold he felt in space alone – could never sleep beside the man if he had those nightmare about explosions and choking to death and the coldness of a void seeping through his spacesuit. He could tell Duo, a man who lived in constant fear of that, in the risky salvage game when one faulty part and one large piece of titanium could obliterate his existence. The ever-present knowledge that Spacers lived with that one single moment could bring with it immediate death.

And it had. That risky occupation had brought with it the usual outcome – Spacers didn't live into retirement.

"Why Duo?"

Trowa blinked and looked up – staring straight into those eyes. The question seemed odd.

"What I mean to say… is why did you tell Duo?"

"He had his shit. Understood better. Didn't need the sugar coating."

"And you feel Quatre always did?"

"Quatre…" he started but didn't know how to say what he needed to say.

Quatre – what? He wanted someone less fucked up, he wanted someone who didn't hide and conceal, he wanted an  _idea_ of him – not the real version. It was always so damn complicated with Quatre.

"He wanted something I could never give him."

"And what did Duo want from you?"

"He never…" Trowa paused and rubbed at his temples. The hangover was a bitch. "He never said. Never demanded anything."

It was true – never  _said_ , never asked or seemed to want anything more than what they had. Made it easy for him. And he'd let him in, past some of that armour, never fully, but they'd had something. Maybe it was love. Fuck if he knew.

"Why did you think the two of you ended up in this… relationship? On the surface, I would consider you entirely unsuited."

"On the surface… yeah," Trowa answered admitting perhaps what everyone thought.

It didn't make sense in so many ways, they barely knew each other in the wars, Duo was, well, _Duo,_  funny and charismatic and likeable and everything Trowa wasn't. They sure as hell didn't look like they belonged together, never looked quite right together, Trowa much taller and Duo all that laid back, languid way of holding himself and they never acted like a couple anywhere other than in private. Shit, it had always looked like Heero and Duo were more compatible in public – the way that Duo would lean against him, throw an arm around his shoulder and they would talk and just look like they could be more than friends. They never did that – Trowa never let it happen, he supposed, maybe he did have that stupid damn armour.

They only truly worked together in private, in sheets, in the movement of mouth and lips over heated skin and in the moments of sweat drying and cigarettes shared and falling asleep with ankles entwined and a hand against chests. In conversations had in semi-darkness. That was where they worked and nowhere else.

"We had a lot in common."

"Like what?"

"Childhood shit."

Trowa wanted to groan as he could almost hear the cogs whirling in Wufei's head – it was like a jackpot for a psychologist – childhood shit. He couldn't have mommy or daddy issues as that would require him having had parents but then he still could have childhood issues.

"Explain."

"Look, I'm hung over… can we cut this session short?"

"No. You are required to complete four hours. You have fifteen minutes left. Explain  _childhood shit._ "

Trowa leaned forward in the chair, holding his head a little in his hands and could feel the steely glare of black eyes without looking up. Wufei was always such a hard ass. Always had been. Right now he really didn't appreciate it.

"We both don't remember parents. We found our own version of families. Lost them. Went out on our own way. Didn't have real names. You want more?"

"Is there anything else?"

"We both knew violence when we were kids. Both seen more dead bodies by six than most people ever see… we had nightmares."

"He understood you."

It wasn't a question – it was a statement. Trowa looked up to see Wufei had removed those glasses and was looking thoughtful – less judgemental, less harsh.

"Yeah."

"And now you feel no one does."

He shrugged. Quatre had wanted to prove he understood, had tried with a soft hand and those manicured nails and soft words and that entreaty about them all becoming buddies again but no… Quatre never quite understood.

No, no one understood him like Duo did, he realised that as he answered the rest of Wufei's questions and promised to meet Yuy when he arrived on L1 for the damn political rally. His head pounded as they finished the session and he felt the burn of stomach acid as he left thinking – damn, Duo understood him but he wasn't sure he'd ever understood Duo Maxwell.

 


	4. Session Four

**~ Session Four ~**

**So Say Goodbye to Love**

Trowa's apartment had not been broken into with frequency since Duo's death but he recognised the tell-tale signs of someone having entered without his consent. With Duo no longer in the picture, it meant it could only be one other man. After all, he'd managed to meet and have a civil conversation with Quatre. But he hadn't seen –

"Heero."

The dark haired man nodded in greeting. "Trowa."

Heero Yuy looked like the man that he tried to ignore on posters and vid feeds. All suit and still slightly messy dark hair, still standing very straight backed like he never quite got over being the soldier. Didn't slouch like Trowa did – still held himself like he was ready to bring out a gun and fight at a moment's notice. Trowa knew he wouldn't – Heero had vowed at the end of the Eve War he would never kill again and as far as he was aware, he never had. Supposed he couldn't when he married the Queen of Pacifism only to divorce her four years later. It had always pissed Trowa off that Heero judged his own relationship with Duo when he pretty much fucked up his only significant romantic relationship within such a short time period. Maybe Trowa had never declared undying love for Duo Maxwell but hell, Duo hadn't either or seemingly wanted it. But then they had spent eight years screwing around in a parody of a monogamous and happy relationship.

Trowa observed that Heero hadn't made himself at all comfortable in his home. Hadn't even turned on the light as the day cycle started to darken. He'd gotten used to Duo breaking into his apartment and finding him in the shower, or on his couch, or if he was particularly lucky in that visit, waiting in bed but then they were fucking and they were comfortable with one another – something Trowa supposed he'd ignored. Supposed he never realised that he didn't react at all when Duo invaded his home or his personal space.

Heero didn't try to ingratiate into the space, just stood by the window. Trowa flicked on the lights – vaguely glad his boredom threshold on his leave of absence meant his apartment wasn't the complete train wreck it usually was. The lighting illuminated the main living area and the kitchenette and Trowa walked towards the fridge.

"Beer?"

"No."

He didn't expect Heero to accept but he pulled one out of the newly purchased six-pack and flipped it open on the edge of the counter. Heero didn't do alcohol often. Trowa could never quite understand how he could be so close to Duo without drinking. Their own relationship had a reliance on intoxication. And sex. Suppose there had been little else but that. Vaguely depressing.

He took a sip and realised that he was being watched very closely – seemed Heero had the same searching eyes as Wufei. Years hadn't blunted the severe quality of his face – really only made him seem harsher somehow. It seemed that they must use make up or photoshopping for some of his campaign vids – he looked almost happy in those.

"Do you want to sit down?"

The faux politeness was not lost on Heero. He quite frankly would like to throw Heero Yuy out of his apartment – have the fight that had bubbled up over the past few years. Trowa was pretty certain he could take Heero in a fist fight – knew that Heero was now a politician and he was an active Preventer with constant mission action as well as his hours in the gym. It would be childish but Trowa had always wanted to measure himself against Heero.

It was so long ago but he could remember admiring Heero during the war, wanting to be so like him and able to do what he did. Wanting the glorious ending of self-destruction and finally becoming the nothing he'd always been. He'd listened to every word – held onto the following emotions line as long as he could but now he was sure it was bullshit. He was sure that the following emotions thing had not seen Heero so well – standing in front of him now, twenty eight, divorced and running for L1 senate as some kind of pay back to a bitch of an ex-wife. Or so he figured. Couldn't imagine why else Heero would run for senate unless it was to piss Miss Pink off – though he knew from Duo that the divorce had been amicable. Suppose he'd not cared enough to ask anything about it.

"No, I'm not going to be here long," Heero said.

"Fine," Trowa answered. He didn't take a seat himself – instead he leaned a little against the kitchen counter and took a sip of beer.

"You didn't come to the funeral."

"It was bullshit. He didn't want that."

"I followed his wishes."

"Bullshit."

"Believe what you want, Barton. You were just fucking him."

The temptation was to throw the bottle, knowing his aim was perfect from his time in the circus and his own knife throwing exploits. Heero didn't move and didn't show any tension in his own body as Trowa had automatically found himself tensing as though ready to fight. He would love to fight Heero – knew he would enjoy trying to beat him to a pulp but they'd probably not know when to stop. It would be some kind of sick fight for the honour of someone who was dead – the best friend and the lover and it made no fucking sense. Plus Duo would've hated it. Hated Heero's overprotective shit and opinions on Trowa. Hated Trowa's belief that Heero was somehow still trying to get into his pants despite the constant protests of him being straight.

"Is that all you wanted, Yuy?"

"Chang said we should talk. Your therapy."

"Fuck my therapy. I don't want to talk to you."

If it hadn't been blatantly obvious that Heero was unwanted, which he'd probably known he wasn't from the moment Trowa opened the door, then it was more than obvious now.

"You never followed my advice," Heero said, quietly, adjusting his coat as though readying to leave.

Trowa only shrugged. Always hated when Heero became a bit of a self-satisfied jerk – sure he would make a good senator – he could be trained by a campaign team to be smug and as irritating as the rest of them.

"You never followed your emotions."

"Get out."

"You loved him."

His teeth gritted and his jaw ground as he met those cold blue eyes.

"He loved you. You should've worked it out, Barton."

"Get out."

"I'm leaving." He walked past and stopped for a moment at Trowa's side – not making eye contact as he removed a box from his pocket. "He wanted you to have this."

He dropped the box on the kitchen counter – avoiding physical contact and didn't turn back, walking from Trowa's apartment, the door closing ominously behind him. Trowa took another swig of the beer and didn't want to know what the box contained. Not some declaration of love and affection from beyond the grave – Yuy was too cold a bastard to do that.

Green eyes glanced at the box and a hand made a motion towards it. It looked almost like a jewellery box but Duo had never worn jewellery – too girly. Took too much bullshit in his years with a braid without wearing "chick shit". The box was heavier than expected in his hand and he placed down his beer on the counter and opened it.

The surprising level of solidity was explained by the contents. The scrap of black scorched Gundanium was recognisable. It was some part of Deathscythe Hell. Not sure what as the part was small and undefined but a scrap of Gundanium.

A joke probably more than a declaration of love. After all, Trowa had destroyed Deathscythe once – something that Duo never quite forgot even after all those goddamn years. He looked at it for a second and then felt the weirdest sensation in his chest – the bubbling of a laugh, something humorous from the perennial joker. He found himself laughing, alone, slightly psychotically, falling down to his ass and drawing his knees up and laughing. Didn't understand – never understood Duo Maxwell and never would but it was easier to laugh at the cosmic joke of this than hit the crushing reality of Heero's visit.

"You loved him" – words from a man who barely knew what love meant. "He loved you." Probably knew that for certain. Probably shared liked good buddies – Heero probably disapproving and wanting Duo to find someone more stable and less likely to rebuff him after a week in his company.

The box dropped to the floor – the piece of scorched Gundanium falling onto the linoleum and he could only think – fuck, this would give Change plenty of ammo for his final session.

* * *

"Do you think he wanted to die?"

The question was startling and Trowa found it difficult to respond. His mind replayed moments of Duo's war time utter recklessness and he remembered night time confessions, pillow talk of ex-soldiers.

"I didn't wanna survive the war."

Trowa remembered those words, uttered in the middle of the night and he nodded. Neither had he. Would have been much easier to have died nameless and hopeless in the rubble of Heavyarms. Would've been better for him to die, floating in space after the battle with Quatre in Wing ZERO. It would have avoided those years of guilt on Quatre's part and all that damn  _trying_ that the blonde business man had done over the years to make Trowa less like he was. Least Duo accepted the morose tendencies. His irritability. His unsociable attitude. Supposed Duo was a lot like him underneath the layers of bullshit – after all, he'd picked a career where he spent months alone aboard  _the Helen._ Chosen to be furthest away from the other four both physically and emotionally.

And he remembered those last few encounters – he saw it now, Duo had been getting tired, desperate even, a little worn around the edges.  _The Helen_ was being held together with duct tape and sheer will and sometimes it seemed that was the same for Duo. Being held together by glue and not much else. But he wouldn't ask,  _goddamit,_ wouldn't ask any of them. Not him – if Heero was correct, the man he supposedly loved – and not even Heero who he still idolised despite the fuck up the Perfect Soldier had done of his post war life.

That last night – that last weekend, the stop over at the L1 cluster for refuel before the journey to beyond Mars, well, that had shown him. He should've made Duo stay – he realised it now – he was being distant, doing that thing with the smirk and the hand behind his neck. Doing those little tics that surfaced only in stress or battle. It was clear he was agitated and Trowa… he didn't say anything.

They'd got caught in the rain cycle as Trowa didn't pay attention to them – newspapers arrived at this apartment and were deposited on the coffee table, usually unread. He glanced at the headlines – saw people he knew and then threw them back down. That night they'd played pool, drank beer and gone home in the middle of the downpour. They'd stripped out of wet clothing, only t-shirts and jeans and the kisses became more passionate until Trowa stepped back, a vague look of rejection in blue eyes as a hand brushed aside the long bangs at the front – still there despite the lack of braid. Still weird to reach for the back of Duo's head and feel the soft short hairs rather than the fall of heavy braided hair.

"Want a drink? Whisky?"

"Sure."

Trowa wasn't sure then why he backed away – why he was putting distance between them but the mood was strange. They'd done everything they normally did – fallen into bed on Duo's arrival and then dressed and eaten at a bar and grill before going to the dive bar with the pool table but Duo wasn't there somehow. Fuck. He hadn't even noticed.

And then there was the conversation later that night. Duo had snagged that black sweatshirt Catherine bought him – too big over his slender shoulders – and he was smoking out the window in the living room, leaving Trowa to wake up alone and wondering whether the stealth expert had made an escape. But he was there – leaning against the window as the rain cycle wound down to slowly falling drops as the great mechanism took its time to turn off fully. It always puzzled him in a way but Duo reminded him of his captain from his merc days – it was just the smell of smoke, he supposed, the cigarettes.

And that was his moment. His moment to say let's stop screwing around. Let's stop pretending we don't want anything more from each other. Let's try the relationship shit – live in the same place, give up the wreck that _the Helen_ had become despite having the best engineer it could possibility have – you can't repair machines without parts, after all. And Trowa didn't. Just walked over, looped his arms around that slender waist and borrowed the cigarette from those thin fingers before returning it back to Duo. Their lips met briefly, tasted of smoke, whisky and the beginning of morning breath. He smelt of sex as he leant back against Trowa.

"You know I didn't wanna survive the war."

And he'd nodded. "Neither did I."

"You ever think we'd get here?"

"In my apartment?"

"Nah, nearly thirty."

"Got a couple more years."

"Yeah but we're now nearer thirty than twenty. Like we're getting old. Grown-ups or something. Time to stop shitting around, I guess."

That was the moment – that was the moment and he'd missed it. Duo had been too melancholy. Too thoughtful. Maybe he'd known that  _The Helen_ wouldn't survive the run or maybe he knew he wouldn't. And he didn't say anything. Only kissed the back of his neck gently in that juncture that used to be hindered by braid and let him go and went back to bed. Trowa never knew how to deal with Duo like that. But damn it, he realised he'd never even tried.

"Do you think he wanted to die?"

Wufei's eyes were scanning him closely and Trowa almost felt himself jerk at the question.

"He didn't want to survive the war."

"The war was thirteen years ago. That is irrelevant."

"He was tired."

"Tired?"

"Started to give up."

"Give up on what?"

"Maybe us. Maybe his life. I didn't ask."

"You never asked?"

"I never knew what to say to him."

"Do you regret that?"

Trowa blinked, suddenly finding something akin to moisture in his eyes. Could only remember crying once before after his destruction of Deathscythe. Seemed his moments of pure emotion were all related to Duo before he even knew that.

"Yeah."

"I understand you saw Yuy."

His eyes gazed out the window, suddenly very conscious of his expression, suddenly wishing he was sixteen again and able to hide behind his bangs and pretend he felt nothing. But he didn't feel nothing. He damn felt _everything._ All those wasted years – those smiles, that laugh, that body, that understanding – that person who had accepted him as he was. Just as he was. And Duo was gone.

"He said I never followed my emotions." He paused and drummed his fingers against his denim clad thigh. "That he loved me. That I loved him."

"And what do you think?"

"That I loved him. And I never told him."

Trowa supposed that was what all these sessions were building up to – for him to admit that he had been in love with Duo Maxwell and his death had been the emotional catalyst for his reckless actions. He expected to see Wufei triumphant – the battle of wits, the warfare over, the game of chess completed – check mate. He didn't look triumphant, he simply removed his glasses and begun to rub them against his white shirt before placing them back on the end of the nose and looking weary, tired, older. He supposed Trowa had been so used to being the one who was being judged and viewed that he hadn't thought about Wufei in this situation.

"Did you want to die when the chemical bomb exploded?"

"I had…" he corrected himself. "I have nothing to live for. Skylark did."

"You have people who care, Barton."

"What – you? Yuy? Quatre?"

"We neglected you… perhaps we always thought you were better alone. Only Duo didn't see that."

They sat in silence and Wufei's glanced towards that clock that indicated they had completed the hour and with that the four sessions.

"I feel we have just uncovered the problems, Barton. I feel we should continue these sessions privately."

"Are you going to clear me for duty?"

"I will clear you but I insist we continue these sessions. You obviously need to analyse your feelings towards Duo's death further."

The moisture clung to his eyes but he nodded, wiped a hasty hand across his eyes and for once was glad that Wufei gave him some damn dignity as he was looking away, gone to his desk, looking at forms and papers.

"I'd like to see you once a week for the immediate future. I will have to bill you, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you will be able to claim back through your health insurance."

Wufei spoke as he ticked forms, signed his name against the bottom of them with a flourish and handed them over. Forms, paperwork, four hours of analysing his feelings reduced to a signature and a tick box that said mentally fit for active duty. The Preventer bureaucracy never ceased to amaze him.

"Call me when you return to work to organise appointments around your schedule."

"Yeah."

Trowa rose to his feet, ready to leave, holding those forms to be handed to the Human Resources staff and fill his already thick personnel file. He didn't know quite what to say. Wufei had removed those glasses and it made him look younger again – more akin to the war time warrior than the careful psychologist and he thought it was appropriate to reach out for his hand, less reluctantly this time. "Thanks."

He wasn't sure what he was thanking him for but Wufei nodded, accepted his hand and then said quietly.

"We all miss him."

And he knew that – knew that from Quatre's distant looks, from Heero's firm belief in doing what he was asked to do and Wufei's words.

"We were meant to be five. Never meant to be four," Wufei said, quietly, strained.

"Just didn't think he'd go first."

And there was nothing left to say as the phone buzzed to inform Dr. Chang of his next appointment. Trowa left, only discovering when he left the office building and was walking down the streets that there was still an unpleasant moisture in his eyes.

* * *

The shuttle flight had been uncomfortable – Trowa was too tall for commercial shuttles – his limbs too long, his legs cramped into the seats and he'd paid for the standard economy class ticket unable to justify the expenditure for the benefit of leg room. He regretted that as he left the shuttle port carrying only the black duffle over his shoulder and joining the queue for the taxis outside the port. He impatiently tapped his foot. Trowa had too many of these quirks now – realised he didn't stand still anymore, didn't become as emotionless and expressionless as he'd liked to be. Now he moved. Too much time spent around Duo.

A cab became available and he instructed the driver of his intended location. The guy nodded, looked at him in the rear view mirror but was not disgusted or horrified by his appearance. His chemical burn was hidden underneath the jacket anyway. He'd raised the collar to hide the burn as the cab met midday traffic.

It had been impulse. Cleared for duty from the psychologist and his wounds healing, he would be returning to the Preventers on Monday. It was Thursday and he wanted to do this one final thing before he went back to work. He'd booked the first shuttle available to the L2 cluster and cared little for the time. He'd packed only a few items in his carry on and departed his apartment, grabbing the small shard of Gundanium as he left.

"You sure you want to be here?"

"Yeah, thanks."

He handed over cash and exited the cab and slamming the door with a little more force than needed.

The cemetery was one of the many dedicated to the war dead scattered across the colonies. He'd seen the one in Sanc – the rows and rows of white crosses lined in green fields. Impressive white gravestones for lieutenants and superior officers. Seemed there was still some differentiation between the average soldier and the command even in death. But the cemetery in L2 was less impressive than the one in Sanc – less dramatic. It was green and well-kept but not the sprawling hills and miles of war dead.

He'd not gone to the funeral and didn't know exactly where the stone had been put. There were no remains of a body in the explosions.

He figured he'd walk and work it out, glance at all the names until those familiar letters appeared. Trowa walked, seeing name upon name of war dead, wondering how many were his own victims or victims of the other pilots. They all lived with the feeling of guilt from their own kills.

Finally he found it and realised it had a more premium location than he had expected. Perhaps Quatre's influence as it was situated near a cherry blossom tree that was beginning to flower in the spring time of even the poorest cluster. It had been years since Trowa had been on any L2 colony – years since he'd talked to Duo about it and he supposed it had to get better. Got the upgrades to the weather cycles. Got the real plant life. Became more earth-like.

The stone was black. This made something akin to a smirk tug at the corner of Trowa's lips. In a graveyard of predominantly white graves, Duo had to have damn black and it was the proverbial middle finger even in death. A little joke. Something like that.

The words were in silvery script.

**_Duo Maxwell_ **

**_AC 180 – AC 208_ **

**_Brother in Arms_ **

He tried not to snort – wondered which of them decided it was the appropriate wording for his grave and figured he would've wanted something funny. Something with swearing. Something about the life he'd led rather than the wars he'd fought in his teens. It affirmed the whole thing was bullshit and he felt glad he'd not attended the funeral.

For a second Trowa thought himself stupid. He'd never been the sort of person to visit the past – he thought a little about his old captain, his first betrayal, thought about the wars from time to time and he wasn't someone who mourned. And he wasn't someone who had faith in anything – afterlife or ghosts or souls. He'd seen enough death to believe that death was it – you became worm food and that was that but here he was. Stood at a pointless marker, above an empty grave.

The box containing the Gundanium was poised in his fingers and he knelt down to place it among fresh flowers. He vaguely wondered who had replaced them recently but then didn't care. They seemed redundant and stupid. Putting flowers on the man who called himself death's graveside. Ironic. Something like that.

It was pointless talking to a grave. Duo's body was unrecoverable. There was nothing left in the blast that had ripped through  _The Helen_  and there were no bones underneath his body as he knelt down. His fingers briefly touched the black marble, feeling the vast expense of it and thinking if only Duo had accepted money from one of them when he was alive to do the necessary refit of his damn ship rather than being independent, stubborn, one man against the world.

"They made me go to therapy."

It felt stupid speaking to the black gravestone and a bitter smile crossed Trowa's face.

"With Wufei. He's a psychologist now. Pretentious asshole."

He tried to imagine the responses – the way Duo would laugh when they were in bed together, how if Trowa had his head on that chest he'd hear the low rumble at something he said. Only time Trowa really spoke, naked, in afterglows or in between rounds. The responses didn't flow in his head – he already felt like he was losing bits of Duo, not able to clearly remember the crinkles at the corners of his eyes that age had brought, not able to remember the scars down his back courtesy of OZ and how they felt, was even forgetting quite how his voice sounded – the low tone and the way it could range from pissed to erotic, comical and melancholy. His emotions were always betrayed by his voice even if his words disguised them.

"This is where I say I miss you."

And he did. Missed the images that were fading in his head – all those moments suddenly slipping through his fingers. Or maybe it should be more – the moment he says he loved him but somehow he couldn't and instead, Trowa rose to his feet and suddenly became conscious that he was being watched as three men stood far enough way that he hadn't sensed their arrival.

He nodded in permission and they approached. Trowa registered that they looked odd together now they were no longer young men – Heero in another suit – navy this time, his campaign team probably suggesting that it matched his eyes or something, Quatre in a long black wool coat that reached mid-thigh and Wufei in a cream trench coat. Probably looked as different as they were in reality as Trowa stood with frayed jeans and that old brown corduroy jacket that Duo had spent years trying to get him to get rid of.

It could have been expected – if Trowa had thought about it more, he'd have expected it. Quatre could find out anything, could know the shuttle he was on and be there before he arrived. And they were trying to show something. Solidarity. Brotherhood. Something.

"We thought we needed to do something to remember him," Quatre said, speaking on their behalf. "All of us."

It was then that Trowa noticed the bottle of Wild Turkey loosely in Heero's hand – a familiar brand and a familiar taste on his lips and he realised what they were doing. What they were meant to be doing. There was a part of him that wanted to resist, to rebel and say that he wanted, no he  _needed_ to remember Duo in his own way but that fight had gone out of him.

"Yeah," he said thickly.

The bourbon burnt on their throats, all taking swigs from the bottle, Quatre's first time wiping the top in some fit of being hygienic or OCD after Trowa passed it to him but got called out on it by Wufei who then offered him a free session to discuss his issues with germs.

It was a shuddering warmth that the bourbon produced, that familiar flavour reminding Trowa of pliant lips and a demanding tongue and the feel of firm muscles and scarred skin. Supposed this was a better funeral than the official one – talking through long suppressed memories, talking of the war that they all had tried to put behind them. And all those moments – punching each other, shooting at each other, and finally, after so long, fighting all together and all the things they remembered about the man who was missing.

It was getting dark by the time the bottle was nearly finished and they'd exhausted the stories they had. Maybe too much alcohol had been consumed for anything else to be said that meant anything. There seemed to be some unspoken agreement and Heero and Wufei left the graveside but Trowa did catch the movement of fingers touching the black marble as they departed. Quatre stood for a second beside him, trying to straighten his coat and brush off some of the blades of grass.

"We're at the Grand Plaza hotel if you want to join us. I can get you a room."

"Yeah… I just need a few more minutes."

"I understand."

He felt the squeeze of his shoulder and then Quatre had joined the other two former pilots who were leaving the cemetery.

Trowa's fingers traced the name, a name constructed out of death and loss, and felt the indentations made on heavy marble. It felt dumb to speak to the stone but the loosened tongue due to warming alcohol made him say words that he never thought he'd say.

"I love you."

It was late, it was too  _damn_ late and utterly pointless now – to say it months after the explosion, months after their last moments together, years after they first starting fucking around – it was all too late.

He'd waited too long and all he could do was declare love to an empty gravestone.

"Duo… I loved you."

And with that, he turned, his head held high to see the cherry blossom tree and the colony sky, and said goodbye to the only one he'd ever loved.

 


End file.
